Go Your Own Way
by iyimgrace
Summary: They were beyond words at this point because of how much history they shared. And really, what else is there to say except for what neither of them is prepared to admit?


_The Muse finally spoke on these two. I love Eyal's character so much and much like _Man in the Middle_, he never makes an appearance but he's all over it this episode. I am certain that these two are destined for each other. It just may take the current to keep pushing them together for her to get it right. Eyal knows that, even if she doesn't right now._

_I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Loving you  
Isn't the right thing to do  
How can I ever change things  
That I feel

If I could  
Maybe I'd give you my world  
How can I  
When you won't take it from me

_Go Your Own Way ~ Fleetwood Mac_

It's early still, just past sunrise, but Annie gets up and goes out to the balcony, phone in hand. She knows she's waiting. Anticipating… even though she really shouldn't be. It's not right, or fair, but she doesn't think about it too hard or she might come up with the answer she hasn't wanted to see for a long time. She's not sure she's ready. So for now she waits. Patiently. Eagerly. And hopes.

The air is cool for the late spring morning and she tugs the neck of her robe tighter to ward off the shiver that causes goose bumps on her skin. She really should shower and get dressed for work. The debrief for the botched exchange with a Somalian courier is scheduled for 0900. She isn't looking forward to it, sure that heads––most likely hers––were going to role. She'd bet her black Louboutin slingbacks on it.

Annie closes her mind to the inevitable and looses herself in the sounds of the neighborhood waking up. A dog barks two blocks over, a garbage truck hisses and whines as it wanders its zigzag path down the street. A jogger slips past oblivious to her eyes on him as she stares through him to the musings of her mind. Just a normal Tuesday, quiet and peaceful, full of routine and the promise of home. Like every other Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday that she'd been home for in the past eight months.

The phone pulses in her hand and she almost drops it, startled by the intrusion into her meditation.

_Right on time_.

Her heart squeezes and she takes a second to enjoy the feeling before the guilt seeps in and she pushes it down deep. She will not allow herself to negate her excitement. It's just her out here right now. And him, on the other end.

The thumbnail image is already bright with colors and she truly can't wait to see it. Her smile is big as she taps in her four-digit code. The screen flicks to their conversation that isn't really a conversation at all. It simply consists of four other pictures. And her emoticon responses. They were beyond words at this point because of how much history they shared. And really, what else is there to say except for what neither of them is prepared to admit?

Still. It means something.

The first one he sent on Christmas––twinkling colorful lights adorning the sailboat masts of the small ships docked like sparkly toys in the Winter Aegean Sea.

The second one came on New Year's Eve. At midnight her time, right down to the second. Two glasses of champagne on a table overlooking the amber and mandarin saturated stucco houses nestled against the face of the hill. A toast at sunset taken about ten hours before her own toast at the turn of the New Year.

The third one came out of nowhere. It wasn't a holiday or even a reason to mark it as a special day, but it was as if his sixth sense knew she needed to smile. She was having a shit week. Her asset was missing, presumed dead and the intel was gone. There was no exfil plan and she had to go to ground. Annie had stopped to regroup and dye her hair an obnoxious shade of auburn that would cost her $250 to have fixed at the salon if she ever made it home. She stared at her strawberry reflection in the cracked restroom mirror and tried not to cry. She was so tired and just wanted to go home. Then it came––the most beautiful crystal blue water and white sand beach. Two lone flipflop sandals sat empty, their owner obviously behind the camera yet presumably swimming in the tranquil ocean without a care in the world. The smile choked out her sob and she hugged the phone to her heart to absorb his uncanny ability to make her not give up.

Today, she wasn't sure that he would send her one. She doubted that he would even remember.

But she should know better––always did know better––to never doubt him.

She touches her finger to the small picture and it opens fullscreen. Her gasp morphs into a giggle and a warmth, that is more familiar than she'd like to admit, worms it way from her heart down to her belly. Her reaction to him has always been visceral. He is that kind of man.

This time he is in the photo. Well, sort of… His bare feet are crossed on a railing, tapered ankles and long toes in the foreground. How even his feet could be elegant and sexy is beyond her. His skin is richly tanned after months of wearing no shoes. She imagines his hair longer and his scruff even longer. Despite the picture is just of his feet, she can tell how relaxed he is and she can't help but feel a little envious. Though he once said he never debriefed, she knew it was the reality of being a spy. But he wasn't one anymore. He walked away. He would never again have to answer to why he'd failed, though she suspected that was a rarity anyway. It's not the first time, or even the second, she's wondered if she should have gone with him.

He's on the water on his boat. Brilliant sunshine and azure blue water shine in the background and an ice cold Sazerac rests on his knee.

"_Happy Birthday, Neshama_."

Annie runs a finger over the screen and imagines that she could feel the sunshine on her face and taste the tang of the salt air. A faint trace of scent memory washes over her. She's instantly transported next to him and the smell of his hair in the warm sun. If she really tries, she can recall the scent of his skin though she should never have it catalogued in the first place.

"Walker?"

Auggie's voice rings out through the sliding glass door from the bedroom.

Her little bubble of paradise bursts. "I'm out here."

She presses the lock button on the phone and slips it into her pocket. It's a needless effort yet somehow still necessary.

A few moments later his hand is on the door to guide him out and familiar, strong arms wrap around her waist as he buries his face against her neck.

"Happy Birthday."

Her thin smile presses against his cheek. She laces her fingers in his and thinks again how she doesn't deserve any of this. "That it is."

The End


End file.
